Ye shall reap what ye have sown
by Kethry47
Summary: The Seed" - with a spotlight on Lorne - the scenes tptb didn't show us


Author's Note: Let me tell you what this was supposed to be: a somewhat large (okay, an extremely large) drabble to "The Seed", season 5 episode 2 of SGA (and, yes, I do know what the word drabble means :) ).

It began as an attempt to enlarge a little (emphasis on little) on Rodney's question whether "it [was] true that Lorne and some of the others [had] started showing symptoms".

IMO, Lorne deserved a little more than just that off-hand remark. As military XO of Atlantis, he should have been much more involved or at least needed to be informed of what was going on, especially as it might affect him. At least, I wanted to see him be involved, informed and affected – on screen. Which sadly didn't happen. :(

Also, I felt that the events from Search and Rescue (namely, being injured and trapped inside a tight, dark space for some time) would have left at least some kind of a temporary effect even on guys as tough as Sheppard, Lorne or Ronon, and needed to be addressed. So, why not combine my two gripes?

That's what I meant to do. What happened was that I more or less re-told the episode with a spotlight on Lorne - not the action parts, just the way some things might have affected him – or not. But be warned – nothing really happens, no big action scenes, just some everyday things, Atlantis-style. I consider it an addition that runs parallel with the episode.

Well, so, no drabble, but roughly 14,000 words of additional scenes. My bad. It seems I can't do short. Hope you'll still enjoy it. When you keep the actual episode - as shown on TV - in mind while you read this, it might even make sense and maybe also be a little fun…. I hope.

Let me know either way, please.

Before I forget it, special thanks go out to Maddie, SF and her brother, who are largely responsible for this not only being so much better than the first version, but also so much longer. :) Thanks, guys.

___________________________________________________________________________

**Ye Shall Reap What Ye Have Sown**

(The Seed Redux)

"_There is a place and __a time --- and it's never _this_ place and _this_ time _

_- in the end, all you can hope for is to be in the right place at the right time." _

"Should you be doing that?"

The guilty look that flitted over his XO's face told Sheppard all he needed to know. Not that he was expecting an actual answer. It had been more of a rhetorical question.

"You gonna tell Keller, sir?" Lorne's voice was carefully schooled not to express more than he wanted to let on, which in turn again told Sheppard plenty.

"Not if you hand over that."

_That _happened to be the easel Lorne had awkwardly been trying to balance, together with what looked like more painting paraphernalia. A folded field chair propped against Lorne's good leg, a food hamper sitting on the floor in front of the open transporter doors and a laptop bag slung over his shoulder added to an ensemble that was completed by a pair of crutches, one of which was propped up against the wall at a somewhat precarious angle. All in all, more than ample evidence of an accident just waiting to happen.

"Come on, before I have to rat you out to Keller."

Reluctantly, Lorne let go of the easel. As he passed it to his CO, he gave Sheppard the kind of look that was usually reserved for when one had to give up one's favourite toy to a sibling on strict and repeated parental orders to share. Even if one knew said sibling would most probably destroy the toy.

"Don't look like that," Sheppard said. "I won't break it." A slightly injured expression went with the statement. Lorne dutifully looked abashed.

Sheppard grabbed the chair, trapped it under the arm that was already burdened down by the easel, scooped up the food hamper with the other hand and stepped into the transporter. "So, where are we going?"

It was a tribute to Lorne's already legendary unflappability that he only blinked once before adjusting the laptop bag, transferring the paint box to his left hand and recovering the crutch with his right. He manoeuvred himself inside the transporter box, crutches and all, and touched a spot on the control panel.

"Balcony overlooking the south pier."

"Pretty far out, nice place, though. Lots of open space."

"Yes, sir."

Each knew what the other had not said; that, at the moment, plenty of open space was what either of them preferred to being cooped up inside. Lorne's quarters were just as spacious and open and light-flooded as any of the others. Floor space was a commodity readily available inside Atlantis, but that was just the problem. It was _inside_ Atlantis. And even after almost four weeks, inside _any_ place was still not exactly a good place to be for some of the four men who'd been rescued from out of the rubble of Michael's trap.

"James still after you?"

"No, sir. I think he finally gave up on me. Guess I'm just not enough of a crack pot for him to get his teeth into."

"Yeah, me neither." Sheppard didn't sound too disappointed at no longer being the pet project of Atlantis's psych department. Neither was Lorne. Analysing the problem was one thing, getting it fixed another.

They knew their present aversion to enclosed spaces wasn't going to be permanent. It had been the first thing Doctor Bryan James, their latest resident shrink, had told them. None of them were in danger of developing claustrophobia …with the possible exception of Rodney, who, on the other hand, didn't need to develop it anyway. If it was a phobia, Rodney already had it.

Immobile with a broken leg and imprisoned underneath Michael's blown compound, Lorne had been the unfortunate recipient of two hours of McKay in panic attack mode. Privately, he thought he was much more in danger of developing Rodney-o-phobia.

Still, he avoided being inside whenever he could. It made him antsy, to put it mildly.

The transporter doors had opened on to a sun-lit, spacious platform. A soft breeze carried the ever-present, vaguely salty tang of sea water with it that had become familiar to them. You could almost taste on your lips everywhere Atlantis was open to the outside air.

Sheppard stepped out first and looked around. It had been a while since he'd last been here. Besides, he didn't want to give Lorne the impression he was being watched. The muted sounds behind him were testament enough of how much his XO had to struggle to keep his balance and not lose any of the stuff he was weighed down with. While, at the same time, he tried not to put too much weight on his broken leg – as per Keller's orders.

"Have you heard?" Sheppard knew Lorne wouldn't have heard; he'd only found out a couple of minutes ago himself from Banks, who'd been in the control room to witness the sight, but he asked all the same. It was as good a way to open a conversation as any.

"What?" Lorne half-turned to him, looking up from the sheltered spot he'd more hopped than walked to. He tried to divest himself of his load without letting anything slip and shatter on impact with the hard grey floor. Only mild curiosity broke the lines of concentration on his face. He knew it couldn't be anything bad or else Sheppard's voice wouldn't have carried that particular inflection of underlying amusement.

"Rodney is accompanying Teyla to the mainland. Wants to make sure that our recovering Athosian friends don't have to live in sub-standard conditions. You know, see if their living accommodations don't have any constructional bugs, that the toilets flush and the generator generates."

"Ronon going, too?"

"Yep."

For a moment, Lorne stopped in his efforts, relishing the mental picture. "_That,_ I'd pay to see."

"You and half of Atlantis."

The two men exchanged a grin. They knew that having Rodney out in what passed as a very low-level building site in the wilderness of a mostly unoccupied and decidedly uncivilized planet was inviting trouble on any given day. More so now when they knew his reason for giving up the comfort and safety of the city was the fact that it was an _enclosed_ comfort and safety. Even more so with Ronon tagging along. Ronon's patience with Rodney's antics was only marginally present on the best of days, which this was probably not.

"Teyla's an angel."

"Hunh." Sheppard's grunt was both affirmation and consent. Casually, he ambled over to his XO's side.

"The combat engineers are just gonna love having Rodney around to tell them how to do their jobs." Lorne's tone was so dry you could practically see the dust flakes coming off of it.

Sheppard nodded his agreement and set the hamper down in the shade of a wall, conveniently jutting off at an almost right angle from the building and not too far away from the transporter. He let the chair slide down between arm and body to settle next to the hamper. Holding the easel up with both hands, he turned to Lorne and raised his brows questioningly.

"Oh, you can just put it down over there, please, sir." Lorne tilted his head to point to a spot still comfortably inside his reach, but not too far inside the area quasi-cordoned off by the wall. His hands were busy juggling crutches and paint box. That accomplished, he reached for the folded chair.

The wall provided shelter from the wind, while it wasn't high enough to close the sun out completely. Its bright rays could easily reach the two men - to warm and to soothe away aches and shadows … and to provide plenty of light to paint by, of course.

"How does this thing fasten?" Sheppard tried to set the unfamiliar object up so it wouldn't fall in on itself at the first touch. The easel, however, wasn't cooperating.

Lorne suppressed a smile. "There's a screw at the back. If you could just lock that down, then I'm all set."

"Ah!" A proud grin gave evidence to the triumph of man over wood.

"Thank you, sir." Before the ensuing moment of silence could develop into any kind of embarrassment, Lorne deftly defused it by picking up on their earlier conversation. "Think the combat engineers are gonna kill Rodney?"

"Ronon will probably prevent them from doing so … though he might let them get in a few punches first."

The combat engineers had volunteered to build and maintain the foundations for the temporary Athosian settlement/holding/rehab facility on the mainland; they hadn't agreed to being ranted and raved at by a phobic McKay. Sheppard's wide smirk was proof that he had no trouble imagining the outcome. While formidable, Rodney was still no match for the combined forces of Ronan and the Atlantis combat engineer corps, especially when they came supplemented by Teyla.

"Yeah," Lorne agreed. Neither had he. They both knew Rodney too well … and Ronon. Rodney would be back soon. God help the poor unfortunate soul who'd be the first to cross his path.

"Argh!" With a relieved groan, Lorne dropped his backside on the now unfolded chair. He stacked his crutches against the wall and stretched his plaster-cast leg out in front of him, bracing his back against the building in an unconscious attempt to ease his aching shoulder muscles. The paint box rested on his thighs.

Sheppard watched his XO cautiously roll his head from side to side. "Headache?"

"A little. I guess I'm just not used to so much exercise," said the guy who, until a couple of weeks ago and pre-plaster, used to run a ten klick track through several levels of the city - before breakfast, three times a week.

"Not what the doctor ordered, huh ... or are we getting soft in our old age?" The man, who might have accompanied him from time to time - just for the fun of it, of course -, replied.

"You would know, sir." Lorne deadpanned. They were roughly the same age, after all.

Sheppard only grinned and stretched out on the floor next to Lorne's food hamper. Lorne returned the companionable grin and opened his paint box. The food hamper would survive … whether the food would was another question.

"So, tell me, what do you think of our new intrepid leader?"

Lorne realized the question was probably the reason Sheppard had come looking for him in the first place. There weren't all that many people Sheppard could ask that question.

Like Sheppard, Lorne had been shocked to learn that Colonel Carter would not be returning from her visit earth-side, would, in fact, be replaced by Richard Woolsey, the I.O.A. representative, who had given them so much shit in the past. The self-proclaimed now ex-I.O.A. representative – yeah, as if any of them here believed that – had arrived yesterday.

Tempers were tense all over the city, and Woolsey either ignored the obvious anxiety or he truly was oblivious to it, in which case he had no idea that he was the reason for it.

He read reports.

Lorne weighed his words carefully. "I am not sure I'm qualified to voice an opinion, sir."

No one had asked him to sit in on the command staff meeting that had been scheduled for the morning. Officially, he was still off duty.

Keller had been adamant that Lorne would not be declared fit for any kind of active duty any time soon unless he followed her orders and one of them had been to stay away from anything strenuous. For the first week, she'd practically confined him to the bed in his quarters.

So, during the few hours Keller would actually let him do some work, he sat on his ass and tried to catch up on his AARs, wrote performance reviews and reports on the fitness of the troops, filled in requisition forms for anything from ammunitions to toilet paper and generally busied himself with the incredibly boring details that could be summed up under the heading of bureaucratic bullshit.

That had occupied roughly the first three days of his enforced rest. For the next two weeks, he split his time between testing how far he could walk before actual pain would set in, and avoiding Keller.

So, yeah, he might have overdone it a little, but he'd needed to get _out_.

If he spent any more of his time trapped inside Atlantis, he'd go ballistic, which was one of the reasons he was out here now - the other being the influx of more and new forms and report sheets that had accompanied the arrival of Mr. Richard Woolsey. They'd find him soon enough, even if an angry Keller had pulled him off anything other than extremely light duty for another two weeks.

"Is any of us?" Sheppard asked, drawing Lorne's mind back to the actual topic. He was rummaging in Lorne's food hamper. "You didn't want the apple muffin, did you?" He held up the object in question and sniffed at it.

"Not particularly." Lorne didn't expect the sarcasm to be acknowledged.

"Good." Sheppard bit into the fluffy, golden crust and closed his eyes appreciatively. His XO knew how to get the best stuff from the kitchens. "This is really great."

"I'm so glad my choice meets your approval, sir." Lorne lifted a water bottle from the cooler part of the hamper and took a sip. Out here in the open, he could feel the tension drain away. A deep breath later, he bit into a chocolate muffin that he had rescued from Sheppard's searching fingers.

"How'd the briefing go?" he mumbled around the muffin. It was just as delicious as the apple had probably been. The bakers really had outdone themselves.

"Hunh." A non-committal grunt, while Sheppard once more checked the assortment of sandwiches, salads and fruit in the hamper. He settled on what looked like a chicken and cheese combo.

"Woolsey pissed off Teyla," he finally offered, biting into the sandwich. He chewed and swallowed the bite. "He won't let the Athosians into the city until _he_ is satisfied they are no longer a threat."

It sounded like a quote.

"Doesn't want us to go chasing after Michael's ghost, either. Wants credible evidence as to his whereabouts before he'll authorize a hunt."

Obviously another quote. They hadn't been entirely sure what to expect, but neither Sheppard nor Lorne had ever doubted that Woolsey would lose any time in establishing who was boss now.

"Teyla's not happy about that, either."

She wouldn't be, not after the way Michael had threatened Torren. As long as Michael was around – and they were all sure that he _was_ still around somewhere, biding his time – he was a threat to Teyla's son. Woolsey hadn't been there, so he wouldn't understand. Not the way Sheppard, Lorne and the others did.

"He also brought a new conference table – big, flashy mahogany affair."

Lorne tried to visualize that. "Did we _need_ a new conference table?"

"Woolsey says it reminds him of home."

"Ah!"

"And he practically pushed Keller into thawing out Carson."

That had a more ominous and imminent ring. "How?"

Sheppard shrugged. "Felt like he more or less threatened not to let her continue her research if she didn't do something soon." Lorne saw him wince at the memory. "She says she might have a cure for Carson."

"Has she?" Lorne, as well as anyone who knew Carson, wanted him back; needed to see their old friend was indeed back among the living instead of wasting away what life he had been given as a frozen popsicle.

"If she's not certain, wouldn't it be better, if she ran a few more tests?" He also wanted a _healthy_ Carson back, one whose cells wouldn't deteriorate inside a week and kill the man. He wasn't sure any of them could go through that again.

"Seems she's out-tested it." Sheppard replied without much conviction.

"Hm." There was not much else Lorne could think of to say, except: "So, anything we can do?"

"Give the guy a chance and hope for the best. Besides that, not much else really."

"Right."

It was like the echo of a conversation they'd first had three weeks ago, when they'd learned about the change in leadership and had wondered whether there was anything they could do to prevent it. In the end, they'd been forced to admit that all they could do was to do what any military contingent would do in the face of a changing command structure. Wait and see. Go with the flow and hope for smooth sailing. Yadda, yadda.

The problem was, Atlantis had spoiled them for things like proper procedure. Elizabeth Weir's style had been as far away from military protocol as Pegasus was from Earth. How could you go by the book, if you were the one writing the damned book as you stumbled along?

Carter hadn't tried to change things, or if she had, she'd done it so unobtrusively that people hardly noticed the gradual transformation from a city used to a civilian commander, who'd been a diplomat first, to one run by a woman whose background was exclusively military and scientific. Sheppard and Lorne had, of course, but the day-to-day operations hadn't seen many modifications, if any.

Lorne wondered if he would ever again be completely comfortable with the way things were done on Earth. He knew he might have to adapt very quickly. In all their dealings with him, Woolsey had never appeared to be the type to compromise when he felt something went against the interests of the I.O.A.. He certainly wouldn't have changed. The best interests of Atlantis and her people came a poor second.

Lorne poured a little water into a small container and wet one of the brushes from his paint box. "What about Beckett?" Absent-mindedly, he shook the excess water out of the brush with a flick of his hand.

"Rodney told me they'd give it a shot tonight, when he's back from the mainland."

Sheppard pushed himself up from the hard floor. Looking out over the broad balcony to the pier where the Daedalus had sat until last night, he stretched his long frame and rolled his shoulders.

"We'll see how well that goes then." He walked over to the easel. "Want me to give it a shove over to you?"

"Thank you, sir, but I'll be fine." Lorne had abandoned his chair. He limped over to where Sheppard stood, his palette and brush in one hand, a small canvas in the other, crutches deliberately forgotten.

"You really shouldn't be doing that, Lorne. Keller'd have a fit. See that she doesn't catch you disobeying her orders - again." Which was pretty unlikely now, given what Sheppard had just told him.

Lorne propped the canvas up on the easel and threw his CO a look.

Sheppard took the look for what it was - an invitation to get the hell out of Lorne's hair.

With a detour back to the food hamper, where he helped himself to a banana, courtesy of the departed Daedalus, Sheppard strolled towards the transporter and waved a hand in front of the control crystals. Lorne watched him start unpeeling the top of the banana and take a small bite.

"Hey, Lorne, whadda ya bring the laptop for?" Sheppard gestured at the abandoned bag by the wall.

"If I get bored, I could always write more reports, sir." Lorne offered, dryly.

Both men knew the real explanation was that for the past couple of days, Lorne and Sheppard had gone over personnel files in search of two likely candidates to replace Lorne's lost team members. The files of those who'd made it for final consideration were on the laptop. Up here, away from the buzz of the city, Lorne thought he could narrow it further down, maybe even come to a decision.

"Yeah, good luck with that." The transporter doors swooshed open and Sheppard took a step inside, eying the half-peeled banana sceptically. He turned to face his XO. "You might want to keep your fingers crossed tonight all the same."

"My fingers are permanently crossed, sir."

"Still beats me how you thought you could lug all that stuff up here on your own, Lorne. Pretty crackpot idea if you ask me." Sheppard's parting shot floated out to the balcony with the closing of the transporter doors.

Lorne grinned and turned back to his canvas. The pier looked great against the backdrop of ocean and sky. If he took some of this, mixed it with this and maybe added a little of that, he had just the right shade of blue to start with.

........................................

"I'm _what_?"

Lorne almost choked on his coffee. He had – uncharacteristically – slept in, and after some light, not-so-early morning exercise – none involving his injured leg – he'd made his way to the cafeteria, where he had just started on an excellent breakfast. The food was always outstanding right after the Daedalus had arrived and brought in fresh supplies of good old home fare. Not that the Pegasus supplies weren't fresh and excellent either, they were just different, and once in a while, he didn't mind a taste of home.

Lorne glared up at the two marines next to his table. "Would you repeat that, Sergeant?"

"If you would – please – come with us, sir."

Fredericks and Meyers tried not to look awkward … or uncomfortable … or … plain embarrassed, at having to basically _arrest_ a superior officer, and in full sight of the crowded cafeteria, whose occupants were watching the scene with undisguised curiosity.

The two men failed spectacularly.

"You're under house arrest, Major." Grimacing, Meyers repeated as ordered. "Mr Woolsey says you're not to leave your quarters until further notice."

"Colonel Sheppard, Doctor McKay and Ronon are also to be detained in their respective quarters, sir," Fredericks added. Neither man sounded happy. From the looks of it, they'd rather be doing KP or even latrine duty.

"Any particular reason?" Lorne asked with deceptive calm. Two days ago, Mr ex-I.O.A.-representative Woolsey had arrived, and today the senior staff members of Atlantis were put under 'house arrest'. What the _hell_ was going on?

"He didn't say, sir." Fredericks responded. "Just that we were to escort you to your quarters and see to it that you remained there. He'd come by later to explain."

"Please, sir. Mr Woolsey did mention it was a matter of security." Meyers cut in. He shifted nervously on the spot, watching Lorne with an almost entreating expression.

The two men clearly considered the task they'd been saddled with as extremely distasteful, yet Lorne was sure, they would perform as told. He expected no less.

Lorne scanned the room, crumbling a roll between his fingers. His still scrambled-up instincts had made him sit right next to the big floor-to-ceiling window that he knew opened up to a balcony outside the cafeteria - a spot which incidentally put him roughly the same distance away from both exits.

Suddenly, Fredericks and Meyers each took a step back and slightly to the side, effectively bracketing the table – and him. Out of the corner of his eyes, Lorne saw Meyers' fingers tighten on his P-90; Fredericks casually put one hand on his, instead of leaving it dangling from its vest clip as before.

Lorne realized that he had not only begun planning a possible escape route, he'd also telegraphed it clearly to the two marines.

"Relax, guys. My leg is still broken. Where would I go?" Wryly, he looked up at the two men.

He definitely needed to work on his poker face before he could be allowed out on missions again.

Lorne sighed. No sense in making this already weird business any more unpleasant for the marines, who weren't at fault in any way. He'd find out about what was going on soon enough. He hoped.

"Can I take my breakfast?"

Meyers glanced at Fredericks.

"Mr Woolsey didn't say anything about any breakfast, sir," Meyers said. He hesitated.

"But he also didn't say anything about you starving, either, Major," Fredericks stated hastily.

Lorne could almost see Fredericks' mind working. If they had to drag poor old Major Lorne away from the breakfast table and more or less imprison him in his quarters on unspecified grounds and on orders from a guy they didn't know or trust, they could at least let the man have his breakfast - or so he obviously figured. Fredericks let go of his P-90, grabbed Lorne's food tray and turned to leave.

"Here, in case you want another cup, sir." Evidently, Meyers had made up his mind as well. In for a penny, in for a pound seemed to be his maxim. He deposited a coffee pot on the tray, his face completely bland.

"I like it with cream, Meyers," Lorne said mildly.

No muscle moved in Meyers' face as he added a cream dish to the tray. Fredericks' expression could also best be categorized as non-existent.

"Thank you, Meyers."

Lorne dusted his fingers off, pushed his chair back and stood up with understated care. He'd leant his crutches against the adjacent chair. Now he picked them up again, nonchalantly adjusted them around his arms and, with a nod, motioned for the men to precede him.

"After you, gentlemen."

"After _you_, sir." Meyers' face brooked no argument. They might let him have his food and even some fun at Woolsey's expense, but they were doing this, if not completely by the book than at least by the chapter.

Lorne limped off in the direction of the transporter. His breakfast and his two guard dogs followed.

…………………………………

"This is beyond ridiculous!"

If Lorne had been a man given to throwing things at innocent walls, the fate of his breakfast dishes would have been sealed about an hour ago. If he were healthy and a pacer, there'd be a groove run into the floor of his quarters by now. Well, he was neither, so walls, dishes and floor were safe. Even if his current frame of mind wasn't.

Lorne hadn't earned the nickname "Major Unflappable" for nothing, though he wasn't supposed to know about it, of course. Before the SGC and even after, nothing much would scare him per se, let alone make him nervous.

But this did. This not knowing truly scared him. He wasn't used to being out of the loop.

Plus, he was starting to get edgy again. It reminded him of the first days after he'd been released, or rather been thrown out of the infirmary by an irate Keller.

If he recalled correctly, her exact words had been, "Go, be grumpy somewhere else! I have more than enough patients who appreciate what we are doing for them here. And remember – you will _not_ leave your bed for more than is absolutely necessary – ab-so-lute-ly, you hear me?!"

He was the last one to deny that he had been a lousy patient. The loss of his men had rankled deeply. In his mind, Lorne had replayed the scene before the explosion over and over again. He ought to have anticipated Michael's booby trap. But he hadn't and now he had to learn to live with that. Like his leg, that wound would take some time in healing, and no prodding and poking would speed up the process. He'd been glad to put a little distance between himself and the medical profession.

After those pain-filled, but otherwise medically uneventful days spent in the busy infirmary, he'd had no reason to expect it, but the first night alone in his quarters had been bad. He'd woken up after about an hour of fitful sleep, sweat-soaked and gasping for air. The rest of the night, he'd spent half lying, half sitting and very much awake on a chair on the small balcony outside his quarters.

The next day, Ronon had come by unasked and had wordlessly dragged his bed outside.

"No rain for the next couple of days, the computers say," he'd told Lorne gruffly, after carrying a small bedside table outside as well. "McKay says if you want it, he can rig you a small force shield to keep the wind out."

"It's invisible," he'd added when he noticed a blink of unease cross over Lorne's features.

Lorne slept outside on his balcony for the better part of the following week, protected from the elements by Rodney's shield. After a few days, it got better. And he could actually ask Ronon to move the bed back inside by the end of the week.

Bryan James had assured him that the trauma would pass soon. But what helped more was the fact that Sheppard, McKay and even Ronon all displayed the same symptoms to varying degrees and, like him, were all three steadily getting better in dealing with tight spaces … well, not Rodney, but that, truthfully, surprised no one. But they all slept inside again. Just not all very well yet.

Locked inside his quarters, Lorne again sensed that same odd, suffocating feeling creeping in on his consciousness. He didn't like it.

He had to know what was happening outside. He had to get _out_.

Half an hour into his 'house arrest', he'd received several data bursts from McKay on the intranet. The only way to prevent Rodney from using his talents was to take away every last one of his electronic gadgets. Woolsey had evidently not thought of it.

McKay was busily tapping into systems and keeping everyone informed.

That way, Lorne found out that a) defrosting Beckett had apparently been a success and the treatment to keep his cells intact seemed to be working, b) some weird, tentacly shit was growing out of Jennifer Keller's body, presumably turning her into a hive ship and c) that his own imminent future included a possible career move to wraith cruiser, too. Hadn't he once told Caldwell that he'd always wanted his own ship?

Oh yes, and d) Woolsey had had everyone, who'd been on M2S-445, recalled and confined to their quarters. According to McKay, he obviously hadn't the slightest idea what to do with them and most certainly didn't trust any of them, especially not the command staff. So instead, he refused any contributions they might make to solving their current crisis.

Rodney's language had been a little more … McKay, but, well, Lorne didn't think they'd gain anything by questioning Woolsey's intelligence, parentage or state of mind. Insulting the man behind his back wouldn't get a single one of them out of their quarters. Not that Rodney wouldn't insult Woolsey to his face. He seldom held back, certainly not when he was agitated, which, many would say, seemed to be his permanent state of mind anyway. This time, however, Rodney had reached a new personal high. His messages left no doubt as to how deeply he was worried about Keller. The situation had to be bad.

Since then, Lorne had heard nothing. Rodney's data bursts had mysteriously stopped. A nurse had come by to draw a blood sample, but she hadn't been able … or allowed … to answer any of his questions.

He wasn't sure which was worse, not knowing anything at all or having some of the information and not being able to act on it. Though he was pretty sure that information-wise, he was once again far down the totem pole. A lot could happen in an hour, and in Atlantis, it usually did.

At the sound of the doors to his quarters swooshing open, Lorne spun around – as much as one could spin with a plaster-cast leg. He had to grab the back of a chair to stabilize. Lorne drew himself up straight, not quite at attention, but close enough. After all, the man was his new boss – for better or worse.

"Major Lorne."

"Mr. Woolsey."

"Major Lorne, I am sorry, I could not talk to you earlier." Woolsey took a step into the room. "But it has been … a busy time."

"I understand, sir."

"Well, yes," Woolsey gestured vaguely. "You are probably wondering why you are being detained." He seemed very interested in a point somewhere above Lorne's left shoulder. "We are now certain that you and everyone who was on MS2-455 were exposed to the same alien pathogen that is at present transforming Doctor Keller."

"I see, sir. How unfortunate."

"Yes, ahem. … Doctor Becket assures me that, as far as he can tell, it is not contagious, so you don't have to worry about having spread the infection to anyone here in Atlantis."

"That is good to hear." Lorne wasn't going to make things easy for Woolsey. He continued to look at him impassively.

"Well, yes ... "Woolsey cleared his throat, but then met Lorne's eyes without flinching. "Doctors Zelenka and Beckett are working on a solution, and I am confident that we will soon be able to deal with the problem. Until then, I am afraid, you will have to remain in your quarters." He hesitated. "I am sure you understand, Major Lorne." With that last remark, he turned back to the door.

"I am sorry, Mr Woolsey, but wouldn't it be much more practical to have everybody, who's infected, quarantined together? That way our vital signs could be constantly monitored, and Doctor Beckett would get first hand data on any kind of change." Lorne observed calmly and hobbled a step forward. "It might help him find out how to cure Doctor Keller so much faster."

He didn't add that by being stuck in their respective quarters, there was the very real possibility that someone might be overtaken by the pathogen so quickly that he or she wouldn't be able to radio in and inform anyone. It should have been obvious, even to someone as inexperienced with the weird-is-normal as Woolsey.

"Ahm, I am sorry, Major, but I cannot allow that at the moment. We don't know enough about the situation and the dangers it involves for all of us."

Woolsey hesitated again. He looked like a man who was in way over his head and had realized it, but didn't know what else to do. A situation like this probably wasn't covered in the I.O.A. handbook for up-and-coming leaders.

He stopped inside the open doors. "You will, of course, keep the medical department informed of any physical changes you might experience, Major."

"Absolutely, sir. Wouldn't dream of doing anything else."

Lorne knew his answer was more than bordering on the insolent, but his patience was worn thin by being kept like a criminal – or worse, like a useless idiot - in his quarters. He wondered what Woolsey was more afraid of, that by letting them out he'd look incompetent and lose control or that he'd be breaking one of his precious rules by going into unknown territory – or possibly both.

Whatever it was, McKay was right. Woolsey didn't trust them. That was the only explanation for his strange and unreasonable orders. The man was rejecting a valuable source of information because he didn't _have_ any information. It was ridiculous.

Woolsey made a half-turn back into the room. "Oh, and Major, there won't be any more data bursts from Doctor McKay. I had Doctor Zelenka disable that part of the internal systems. The only open connection is the one to the infirmary to report on your status."

Lorne wondered if he was imagining the hint of steel underlying the announcement.

"Sir?" He schooled his face into a study of innocence.

"I think you know exactly what I mean, Major." After an inscrutable look back, Woolsey left the room and signalled for Fredericks to seal the door.

"This is _way_ beyond ridiculous."

................................................

"Sir?"

Dimly, the strange voice filtered through to his drowsy brain. With the stirrings of awareness, feeling returned. His left shoulder was clamped in a vice. It was pure reflex that he tried to twist away from whatever was restraining him. But the rough grip tightened and bit deeper into his flesh. The squeezing continued, accompanied by a forceful shaking. Pain seared through his body.

"Sir? Are you alright, sir?"

Instinct took over, jerking him awake. Lorne cracked his eyes open and threw himself to his left. He grabbed the hand that imprisoned his shoulder and yanked. In a move practised so often that it had become habit, he flung his body around, dragging the attacker with him. Simultaneously, he pulled his good knee up and drove it into the figure on top of him. Though he was still disoriented, Lorne punched, hard, at where he assumed his assailant's head to be. Before his surprised opponent could react to any of Lorne's actions, Lorne toppled the man over and off his bed.

A thud and a surprised grunt of pain were the response to Lorne's defensive moves. With the pressure on shoulder and body gone, Lorne ignored his own pain and rolled in the direction of the sounds. He was still barely aware of what was going on and running on automatic only, but his trained fighter's mind knew his chances were better than they had been before. He could use his higher position to his advantage now.

The harsh, metallic sound of a P-90 being cocked finally got through to his conscious mind.

"Don't move!" A rough voice barked.

Lorne froze.

"Don't! Hold it, Meyers!" A second voice from the floor next to Lorne's bed hoarsely wheezed the command. Propped unsteadily on his left elbow, Fredericks looked up right into Lorne's puzzled eyes. The marine lay sprawled on the rug in front of the bed. He had a hand on his windpipe; his mouth was wide open, sucking in air arduously.

Lorne fell back into the mattress. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. His heart was beating so loud, he could hear the blood roar in his ears.

"Fredericks?" Meyers inquired warily. From where he stood just inside the doors to Lorne's quarters, he couldn't see the other marine.

"I'm okay, Meyers!" Fredericks croaked and pushed himself up to a sitting position. He was still rubbing his bruised throat. "Major just got me by surprise." His breathing appeared to have returned to normal.

"Damn!" Lorne wiped a sweaty hand over his face and looked from one marine to the other. "What happened?"

"Don't really know, sir." Fredericks answered. He got to his feet, one hand continuing to massage his throat. "We were told to check on you, sir."

The marine moved round the bed to stand at Lorne's feet. At his nod, Meyers lowered the weapon, but didn't take his eyes off the man on the bed. Lorne didn't fail to notice that Meyers also hadn't put the safety back on. Fredericks' P-90 hung disregarded from its vest clip where it had apparently been all the time.

"We tried the chimes, sir, but you didn't answer." Fredericks seemed to have assumed the role of spokesman for the two. "Then we tried knocking, but you still didn't respond, so we used the override that Doctor Zelenka gave us." Fredericks sounded a little unsure how this admission of intrusion into his private quarters would be accepted by Atlantis' XO.

"And?" Lorne prompted. He had been sure that Woolsey had provided his guards with a means to get into his quarters if necessary, so Fredericks' tacit confession didn't surprise him.

"Nothing, sir." Fredericks replied. He coughed and had to clear his throat. "Sorry, sir," he said. At Lorne's nod he went on. "Well, looked like you were sleeping, sir. But when we called, you didn't move. So I tried to shake you awake, sir."

The marine winced. He didn't need to explicate on the result. Lorne remembered that much at least. The actual process of waking up still remained somewhat vague.

"Sorry about that, Fredericks," Lorne apologized. The apology was accepted with a dip of Fredericks' head.

"How's the throat? I certainly didn't mean to rough you up like that."

"Fine, sir." The marine touched a hand to his throat, more out of reflex than actual necessity, Lorne thought. Fredericks' face didn't betray anything, except maybe a touch of annoyance at having been caught unawares and knocked over like that --- and by a flyboy with a clipped wing at that. Lorne had to suppress a small smile.

"And how are you, sir, if I may ask?" A tiny frown appeared on Fredericks' forehead. "You were mighty hard to wake up."

"Hm…" Lorne needed a moment to take stock of his condition. His mind was slowly but steadily upgrading from sleepy-fuzzy and running on automatic only, to wide awake, alert and capable of conscious thought processes; his body was coming down from its adrenaline-induced high, and the frantic beating of his heart had slowed down to a more normal rate.

"I seem to be okay, Fredericks," Lorne replied, distracted. He was listening to some distant, internal voice that had suddenly popped up on the very fringe of his consciousness. He slowly pushed himself up on his arms, a frown of concentration the only evidence of his attempt to capture the faint murmuring. When he swung his legs over the side of his bed, he almost fell over with the pain that exploded unexpectedly from his abdomen.

"Argh!"

Bent double, Lorne clutched his midriff. He nearly blacked out from the agony that was racing through his body. Desperately, he tried to force some air into his lungs.

"Argh!" Lorne barely noticed that he had fallen off the edge of his bed and had awkwardly ended up on his knees in front of it. Some of his other senses were crystal clear, however. He felt his forehead touch the carpet. There was the bitter taste of bile on his tongue and the metallic tang of blood where he'd bitten his lip. Yet, he had trouble hearing the two marines. Their voices came muffled through a curtain of fog.

"Major!?"

"Shit, I'm calling medical!"

Then, as suddenly as the pain had appeared, it vanished again. Slowly, cautiously, Lorne straightened, all the while mentally probing his body for another inexplicable burst of pain. With every muscle he dared move, he expected something to incapacitate him again. Nothing happened. He drew in a few short, strained gasps of breath and swallowed back the bile. Uneasily, he swayed on his knees. The pain remained absent. Lorne looked around him, still panting.

Fredericks had taken a step back. His hand hovered near the dangling P-90. His eyes were glued on Lorne. Meyers had his gun up again, pointed directly at the prostrate man in front of them.

"Major?" Fredericks' voice still evidenced no signs of freaking out. Meyers' eyes were wide enough to show their whites, but the P-90 didn't waver.

"I think, sergeant," Lorne gasped, "that Meyers had the right idea."

"Call medical, sir?"

"Call medical!" Lorne confirmed weakly. He wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand and struggled to stand up, one hand still protectively clasping his stomach, the other stretched out to balance himself against the bed.

"Meyers!"

"Already on it." Meyers started speaking softly into his com. He had lowered the gun again, but kept a watchful eye on Lorne and Fredericks.

A firm hand grabbed Lorne's elbow, steadying him and dragging him up to his feet. Lorne met Fredericks' eyes and tilted his head gratefully. The marine acknowledged the glance with a barely perceptible nod of his own.

"They are on their way, sir." Meyers announced from the door. "Hope the leg is still okay, Major." A slight twitch with his P-90 indicated the plaster cast on Lorne's left leg.

"Yeah, me too, Meyers." Lorne shifted his leg experimentally. It didn't feel different. He didn't think he'd hurt it. The plaster cast was the best protection it could have had. "Feels fine, though." He was talking for the sake of talking, of hearing his voice. He was glad it didn't sound as shaky as he still felt.

"Ahem, sir, please take your hand away from your stomach." The vaguely spooked look had returned to Meyers' eyes. His head was bent to one side. He was listening to something on his ear piece.

His hands tensed on the gun when Lorne didn't move. "Sir?"

"What gives, Meyers?" Fredericks asked calmly from Lorne's side. He hadn't stepped away, though Lorne hadn't missed the hand that had moved up to cradle the P-90.

"I need to see your stomach, sir." Meyers demanded.

"Why? What's wrong with my stomach?"

Bewildered, Lorne dropped his hand to his side and looked down his torso, inspecting the body part in question. He'd gone to bed wearing only a pair of boxers. He'd felt too hot for more clothes. In the struggle, the shorts had slipped down his hips a little, exposing most of his flat, muscled abdomen. It looked the same as it had when he'd gone to bed, the same way it usually looked.

Lorne glanced up questioningly first at Meyers, then at Fredericks. "Well?"

"Looks okay to me, sir." Fredericks volunteered with a shrug. "But what do I know." As one, both Lorne and Fredericks looked up at Meyers for clarification.

"Doctor Beckett wants to know if there are wriggly things growing out of your stomach, sir," Meyers explained. He grimaced by way of an apology, rolling his shoulders uncomfortably.

"Nope, Doc, the major looks just fine," he informed the man on the other end of the communications device. He listened to more instructions and nodded. "Okay." He relaxed and turned to Lorne.

"Doc says not to worry, sir. You'll be fine." Meyers' grin was meant to be supportive, but had a lot more resemblance to a scowl.

The marine really needed to work on his reassuring skills some more, Lorne thought. He definitely didn't feel reassured. He frowned down his body. The pain had originated from his stomach.

"Wriggly things, hunh?" he asked, raising his head again to see both Fredericks and Meyers watching him intently.

"Interesting," he stated more calmly than he felt. Jennifer Keller had some wraith tentacles growing out of her stomach Rodney had claimed. Decidedly wriggly, definitely bad.

"So the doc says," Meyers added in his defence.

"Yeah!" Lorne sighed. "Great." He touched his stomach tentatively. It didn't feel different. But he also didn't sense any of the pain that had almost rendered him unconscious only minutes before.

He drew another deep breath. "Do I walk to the infirmary?" he inquired resignedly.

"Now, that won't be necessary, Major." Carson Beckett's Scottish brogue was always more pronounced when he was agitated. He was practically burring now. Behind the Scot, a gurney was being rolled down the corridor by two medical orderlies, who, in turn, were followed by another nurse carrying medical equipment.

"You'll be driven in grand, old style," Carson tried to joke, though the smile didn't quite reach his tired eyes.

"How bad is it, Doc?" Lorne demanded. He wanted to know what was in store for him. "And don't bullshit me, Carson!"

The Scot sighed. He carefully looked Lorne over. "At first glance?" he asked quietly. "No guarantees?"

Lorne nodded.

"No tendrils." Carson stated the obvious, clearly pleased.

Lorne nodded again.

"Any pain? Headache? Nausea? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Some pain," Lorne admitted. "Earlier." There was no use denying it.

"Some pain!" Fredericks made a snorting noise. He hadn't left his spot next to Lorne. "The major got hit pretty hard, Doc. Whatever it was, it dropped him off his feet."

"Yeah, basically took him out cold for a few seconds," Meyers chimed in from his vantage point by the door. "Then he seemed fine again."

Beckett raised an eyebrow.

Lorne shrugged. "Like someone had stabbed me in the stomach with a hot poker," he conceded. "Went away again as suddenly as it came. No pain now."

"None?"

"Nope, none at all."

"Anything else?" Beckett inquired, making room for the gurney, which came to a stop in front of Lorne.

"Hmmm," Lorne hesitated.

"Out with it, lad." Beckett smiled at him encouragingly. "I'll be bound to find out soon enough anyway, won't I?"

Lorne gave him a lopsided grin in return. "My palms are sweaty." He lifted them up for Carson's inspection, opening and closing them twice. They felt --- weird. "And…," he hesitated again.

"And…?" Beckett prompted, patting the gurney in invitation. "Hop on, Major."

Lorne took the one remaining step to the gurney and complied. He sat on the bed and shifted his weight to swing his legs up. Unasked, Fredericks gave him a hand, heaving his plaster-cast leg up. Briefly, Lorne smiled his thanks.

"Well?" Beckett was still waiting for Lorne's answer.

"Before the pain, there seemed to be some…," Lorne started reluctantly. He didn't know how to describe it. "It was like some weird noise in my head." He looked up, expecting to see disbelief, but Carson only regarded him thoughtfully. "Almost like a voice." Lorne finished with a hint of defiance.

To Lorne's surprise, Becket agreed. "Even knowing what little I know about this thing, that doesn't amaze me." He wrinkled his nose. "It's apparently an organism that's capable of communicating with its victim. It talks to Jennifer."

"Ick!" Meyers had the grace to blush a little when all eyes turned to him. "Sorry, sir," he apologized to Lorne.

Lorne just nodded. He couldn't say that he didn't feel the same way.

"Ick just about covers it very well, lad," Carson granted. He patted the marine's arm reassuringly.

Absently, Lorne watched one the nurses approach him with a needle. Without a prompt, he made a fist and observed the vein in the crook of his left arm being tapped twice before the needle was slipped in expertly and fixed in place with a band-aid. Next a drip-feed was attached, which then got clipped to the side of the gurney. His right arm was already sporting a blood pressure cuff and some other monitoring gear. For a moment, Lorne watched the steady blip of his heartbeat on the small monitor that they had deposited next to his blanket-covered hip.

He raised his head to look at Beckett, a question in his eyes.

"Just some fluid and a broad-spectrum anti-biotic," Beckett reassured him. "Something to keep your body happy."

A shot in the dark, in other words. Lorne didn't say it out loud, but he didn't think he'd have to. Beckett looked unhappy enough.

"Well, let's get you to the infirmary, then, Major." He motioned for the orderlies to wheel the gurney out into the corridor, moving to lead the way.

Lorne grabbed his arm. "Carson?" The Scot stopped. He still owed his promised preliminary diagnosis.

"I don't really know, Evan." Beckett finally admitted with a sigh. "You're better off than Lieutenant Edison. The poor lad already has the buggers growing out of his body. And also better than Captain Vega. The lass has lost consciousness."

"Who else?" Lorne asked quietly.

"Pereira, one of the combat engineers, is also in a bad way." Beckett walked down the hall alongside the gurney. Fredericks and Meyers followed. "Unconscious, and his hands are excreting some really weird, alien goo."

Everybody looked down at Lorne's hands. He flexed them experimentally. Sweaty, but not gooey…yet.

"A few of the others have reported abdominal pain. That's it so far."

"Sheppard, Ronon and Rodney?" Lorne asked and lay back, watching the ornate walls and colourful windows of the city pass by. They stopped in front of the transporter.

"No symptoms yet, thankfully." Beckett preceded the gurney into the transporter.

"How about a cure?" Lorne didn't want to put any more pressure on Beckett. The man had only just been released from his stasis prison and was still recovering from the treatment that had halted the decay of his cells. The Scot looked drawn, but Lorne had to know.

"We're…," Carson started. They were leaving the transporter right opposite the entrance to the infirmary. Lorne heard familiar voices arguing inside.

"_I don't understand why you always think _you_ have to be the one testing everything." Rodney complained loudly. "Ronon is right; he could just as well do it."_

Lorne didn't hear the answer.

"I'll get back at you as soon as possible." Carson patted Lorne's shoulder. "It might be earlier than you think. Meanwhile, these nice lads will take you to our brand-new, temporary isolation chamber and keep you company there."

With a last, encouraging smile, he hurried off through the open door.

Lorne exchanged a wry glance with the two marines. They hadn't needed the Scot's discreet reminder to tag along.

"Well, then. You heard the man. … Let's go to see the wizard." Lorne quipped dryly.

He closed his eyes and settled back into the pillow as he was wheeled on. Apparently, he might really just have to wait until whatever Sheppard had agreed to test this time, came back with results. From the hopeful look on Beckett's face, it might even be the desired solution to their problem.

Lorne folded his hands across his stomach, trying to ignore the sticky feeling.

………………………………………

"You bored already? And you've been in here for what – an hour tops?"

Sheppard's soft drawl broke into Lorne's reflections. He'd been pondering his situation, trying to gauge his chances of getting out of this mess not only alive and with his mind and body intact, but also – and at the moment that seemed much more important – as quickly as possible. The walls of the temporary isolation room were starting to close in on him.

Lorne took a deep, steadying breath and turned his head to give his CO a critical once-over. Sheppard looked his normal self. No visible tentacles, the black uniform shirt hung loose and crumpled as usual on his tall, slender frame and there was no goo dripping from his hands. But … he was maybe a little pale … and swaying slightly on his feet. Absent-mindedly, his right hand massaged his left upper arm. Looking closely, Lorne saw that both of Sheppard's wrists were sporting the beginnings of fresh bruises. Other than that, there was nothing noteworthy, at least nothing wraithy.

"So it worked?"

Sheppard didn't pretend he didn't know what his XO was referring to. "Yep, looks like it. Well, that's what Beckett says, anyway. Apparently, my blood work came back clean. " He returned the scrutinizing look. "_You_ don't look so hot, though."

"Probably not," Lorne admitted. Even with the company of the marines, the nurses and the other infected personnel to distract him, the room still felt entirely too small. For the moment, he coped, but he didn't know for how long he could stave off a panic attack.

Sheppard nodded. He understood only too well. He was glad Carson had readily agreed to the suggestion of putting everyone into one big isolation chamber when he'd proposed the idea.

They were using one of the huge storage rooms close to the infirmary. Most of the extra equipment they needed to monitor so many people all at once was stored there anyway, and the rest of the preparations had simply meant stacking a few dozen boxes of supplies against the walls to make room for the gurneys and the mobile bedside tables. They had also wheeled in a few privacy screens for the worst cases.

The room had only the one exit, so security presented less of a problem than a dozen or more isolation rooms scattered all over the infirmary level would.

The argument that the medical staff could keep their collective eyes on things so much better that way would probably also sell to Woolsey. Carson could be very convincing if he needed to be.

And if the set-up helped make Lorne feel more comfortable, so much the better. Since Woolsey would never agree to letting Lorne be isolated outside on a balcony, the company would help to keep the wolves at bay.

Another bonus was that the monsters hatching inside his XO and the others were under close observation. In addition to the medical personnel who continuously moved between the beds, checking vital signs, there were at least half a dozen marines scattered all over the room and another two guarding the exit. Beckett had briefed them on what to watch out for and how to react.

"How are you holding up?" Sheppard kept one hand on the frame of Lorne's bed all the time. He gripped it so hard that his knuckles showed. It was the only outward sign that he wasn't as well as he pretended to be.

"For how long do I have to, sir?"

The way Lorne deflected the question gave Sheppard a pretty good stab at his XO's condition.

"Probably not as long as you might think." He made a face. "Hopefully not," he added.

Lorne nodded. "I'll hold out for as long as it takes, then, sir," he promised calmly.

Sheppard accepted the promise – and what it implied – with a slight move of his head. He knew Lorne's outward calm wasn't a front. But he also knew from experience that that calm might break any time without prior notice. The hours he'd spent locked up in his own quarters had been bad enough for him. He knew it had to be twice as bad for Lorne, who wasn't only encumbered by his broken leg but also burdened with the knowledge that he was showing the first symptoms of the wraith pathogen.

"How's the pain?" he asked, indicating he'd talked to Beckett and gotten the short version of Lorne's adventures of the pathogen kind, round one.

"Non-existent, sir," Lorne replied with an audible sigh. He'd been asked the same thing at what felt like three minute intervals by every passing medic and marine. While the latter appeared genuinely concerned for his welfare, the former were plain annoying.

When Sheppard merely arched an eyebrow for an answer, he sighed again.

"What does it take to make you believe me, sir?" he asked a little forcefully.

"Ouch!" Sheppard quirked his mouth. "That bad?"

"That bad!" Lorne retorted. "Everybody and their grandma have been after me to admit to the terrible pain they are certain I just _have_ to be feeling. They keep prodding and poking and just won't accept no for an answer. "

With a self-depreciating grimace he added, "As if I would hide it."

"Yeah, what do they know?" Sheppard commiserated with a weak twinkle in his eyes. "When everybody knows that zoomies are nothing but crybabies anyway."

"Exactly," Lorne agreed. A grin slowly appeared on his face, replacing the grimace.

It found an echo in a similar grin on Sheppard's face. "So, if no pain, then why?" He pointed at the bed.

"Why am I lying around in bed?" Lorne finished the question. Sheppard only nodded. Lorne shrugged. "Not many things to do or places to go for a guy who's only wearing a plaster cast and his underwear, sir."

"True," Sheppard agreed. He noticed the relieved expression that had replaced the stress lines on Lorne's face.

Lorne shifted his body slightly and took another deep breath. Their conversation was doing wonders for his state of mind, driving the incipient panic back and putting things into perspective. He was not alone in this. "So, … what brings you here, sir?" In his current state, Sheppard had no time for a sick call, so it had to be something important – and probably serious.

His assessment of the situation was confirmed by Sheppard's hesitation.

"How far gone are you, Lorne?" The low question demanded an honest answer.

Lorne raised his right hand to show the palm to Sheppard. "I stopped playing solitaire when the cards started sticking to it," he admitted grimly.

It had been a shock to discover he'd actually entered the next stage of the infestation. "It washes off, so there's nothing there to show now, but if Carson is right, I'm up for a keel over next."

They both regarded the hand that looked deceptively normal.

"Why are you asking, sir?"

"Argh. AAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHHHH!"

The low groan that blossomed into a full-blown scream of pain and terror originated from behind the privacy screen that shielded Edison from public view. It hadn't been put up so much to shelter the unconscious man, but to protect the rest of the room.

The sight of the reddish tendrils that continued to wiggle and twitch - and to grow - on the lieutenant's stomach had freaked out marines and patients alike. The patients had probably been more terrified of the spectacle than of their own current plight. If Beckett didn't pull a miracle out of his hat soon, Edison was a constant reminder of what was in store for them.

Sheppard tilted his head towards the screen. "That's why." Lorne had seldom heard so much misgiving colour his CO's voice.

"Edison?" Lorne didn't know why he whispered the question, but it seemed appropriate.

"Hunh." Sheppard had his eyes on the opaque screen. They could only guess at what was happening behind it, but two marines stood poised, facing inside, bodies tense, weapons raised and pointed at someone - or something - hidden from the rest of the room. Edison still screamed.

"Carson thinks he's found the right drug. He's testing it on Edison now," Sheppard elaborated. His upper body twisted toward the shielded section of the room. Everybody else in the ward stopped doing what they had been doing and fixed their attention on the same place. Sheppard braced his hip against Lorne's bed for support; his hand still rested on the bed frame. "It worked on me, but he's not sure if it actually works the same way on a body that's already started the growth process. Edison is the farthest gone of you lot."

Sheppard turned his head back to look at Lorne. "You know what that means?"

"If it works on Edison, it'll work on Keller?" Lorne surmised.

Sheppard nodded. "Beckett thinks so," he agreed.

The screaming went on.

Suddenly Lorne understood the bruises on Sheppard's wrists. Restraints. "Hurts like hell, hunh?" He asked, pointing to them. Sheppard glanced down briefly at his arms and shrugged.

"Lorne," he started, hesitating again.

Lorne's only reaction was to cock an eyebrow questioningly.

Sheppard leaned in closer. "If it works, I want you to go next," he said in a low voice.

Sheppard licked his lips while Lorne waited for him to go on. "If Beckett is right, one of us has to go in and administer the treatment to Keller. There is no saying how the organism's gonna react. It's covering several levels by now. Who knows…. Carson's phage might not even work. …," he stopped and captured Lorne's eyes with his own. "If the shit hits the fan, I need you to make sure that damned thing is destroyed, Lorne."

Lorne translated that as _'if I am not around to do it, because I am trapped up there with Keller, the buck stops with you'._

"How?" He had a pretty good idea what Sheppard was proposing.

"I want you to use the chair and take that thing out for good."

Sheppard's answer was what Lorne had expected to hear. Grimly, he nodded. "You can count on me, sir."

It was all that was needed between the two of them.

All of a sudden, the screaming stopped. The silence was almost palpable. Around them, people were holding their breath.

Sheppard took a shaky step towards the screened corner of the room, when Beckett came out, the expression on his face somber. Slowly, the Scot walked over to Sheppard and Lorne, unaware of the eyes that followed him. He stopped next to Sheppard, acknowledging Lorne with a nod.

Beckett looked at Sheppard. "We had better contact Mr Woolsey now," he told him calmly.

"It worked?" Sheppard asked.

"Aye, it worked," Beckett confirmed. "It woke the poor lad out of his coma and made him suffer terribly, but the wee buggers died and fell off. A little rest and he'll be good as new. I'm sure his blood work will confirm it."

Lorne found himself letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.

The rest of the room followed suit, and tentative, hopeful smiles appeared on the faces of infected and medical staff alike. The marines didn't express any outward change, though their postures relaxed a notch or two.

Finally, the tension around him registered on Beckett. "Don't you worry. The treatment's working, and I'll be back for everyone as soon as possible," he promised with a soft smile that encompassed the room. Then he looked back at Sheppard and frowned.

"And I want you to go back to your bed, Colonel," he admonished. "I should have never allowed you out, no matter how urgently you needed to talk to Major Lorne."

"Carson!" Sheppard cut in and grabbed his arm.

Surprised by the unexpected pressure on his arm, Beckett halted. "Yes? What's wrong?" he asked, the confusion obvious on his face.

"Lorne is next." Sheppard stated firmly.

Uncomprehending, Beckett tried to read the colonel's intent. Sheppard's face gave nothing away. "Lorne is next!" he repeated quietly, but forcefully.

Beckett transferred his glance from Sheppard to Lorne, but the man in the bed returned it impassively. Beckett sensed that he wouldn't learn anything from either of them, so he nodded his assent. "If you say so."

Sheppard straightened and braced himself to leave. "Good. Let's go and convince Woolsey we're not nuts." His eyes contacted Lorne for a last, meaningful look. "Come on, Doc." He slapped Beckett's shoulder lightly and unsteadily made his way to the exit.

Lorne forced a grin on his face. "Well, Doc, look at it this way; when you return you can tie me up and have your wicked way with me," he told the Scot. His throat felt dry. He hadn't forgotten Edison's screams.

Beckett couldn't help noting that Lorne's eyes showed no mirth. He understood the two men well enough to know that whatever secret they shared, he had better accede to the request.

To keep things light, he tried to match the mood. "Aye. When I'm back, laddie, I'll be taking extra care to make sure you'll have a good time." He gave Lorne's leg a fleeting pat and hurried after Sheppard.

Lorne fell back into the pillows and blew out a breath. Absently, he rubbed his palms along the blanket. They felt fine. The blanket didn't stick. Maybe he could start another round of solitaire. He tried not to think of what he had promised.

Some time later, he didn't think of anything at all. The only thing he was aware of was pain.

He floated on a sea of pain. Red hot and searing, it burned through his body from the top of his head to the soles of his feet and back, in a continuous loop of agony. He bucked against the restraints that kept him down, kept him where the pain was. Every movement thrust new bolts of raw pain through his body, and yet, he kept fighting. He didn't know it, but hoarse screams were rendering his throat raw.

At last, his tortured body found the only way out of the agony. Lorne lost consciousness, and when he allowed himself to surrender to the emerging darkness, the pain finally vanished.

"Take it easy, Major. There's a good lad." A warm Scottish brogue fought its way through the haze that surrounded Lorne. "Take a deep breath, Major. And another one."

He didn't exactly know why, but Lorne followed the orders. The voice was the kind that a man could trust. He breathed --- in and out, in and out. With each breath, his awareness grew.

"Crap!" Lorne hardly recognized the hoarse croak as his own voice.

"You had us worried there for a moment, Evan." It was Beckett's voice that had guided him back.

Lorne opened his eyes. The Scot's face swam into view, and worried brown eyes examined him.

"How are you feeling, Major?"

He wasn't sure how to answer the question. His body was aching in places he hadn't realized could ache. His throat felt parched and a dull throbbing had settled where his brain used to be. He had trouble focussing.

"One …," he managed to rasp before his voice gave out. His mouth was paper dry. The attempt to clear his throat ended in a painful cough that had him struggle against the restraints that still tied him to the bed.

"Nurse!" On Beckett's order a straw was placed between his lips. "I am sorry, Major. Let's get some liquid into you first." Beckett placed a hand behind Lorne's head and raised it a little so he could sip more easily.

The first couple of swallows hurt, but then the cool water wet his mouth and soothed his sore throat. When Beckett deemed it enough, the straw was removed. Lorne licked his cracked lips and swallowed experimentally. His throat felt tender, but no longer painful. He might give answering the Scot's question another go.

"One fucking, big ache." Prudently, Lorne started with a low whisper. He swallowed and cleared his throat once more. "Would that be a medically acceptable term?" On the last words his voice began to sound almost normal; it was still rough, but his again. "If you'll pardon the language, Doc," he added apologetically.

"No apology necessary, Major, none at all." Beckett reassured him, touching his arm lightly. "And the term is perfectly acceptable." He looked his patient over carefully.

"I think we can safely take those restraints off now," he declared, obviously satisfied with what he saw.

"Great!"

Lorne watched the straps fall away. Cautiously, he stretched, muscle for muscle. Beckett watched him closely.

Lorne looked up at the Scot. "Well, what's the verdict, Doc?" He had already done his own internal examination. The throbbing in his head and the wooziness were fading, though a deep breath still sent twinges of pain through his body. His chest, arms and legs all hurt where the restraints had bound him to the bed, but it was the kind of pain that he could deal with. It was what was going on on the deeper levels inside his body that had him worried.

"I think I can safely say that you will live, Major," Beckett responded. He was satisfied with Lorne's progress. Colour was slowly returning to the major's face; he breathed easier and his eyes were clear. "Let's just await the results of your blood screen and then we'll know more."

"Good enough for me."

Lorne looked around him. Privacy screens separated his bed from the rest of the isolation chamber. Next to one of the screens, Fredericks stood, casually cradling his P-90. When he noticed Lorne's glance he grinned. "Way to go, Major!"

Lorne returned the grin weakly. "Where's Meyers?" he asked.

"Over here, sir," Meyers wasn't difficult to locate once Carson left his bedside to talk to one of the nurses. The marine was on watch close to the foot of Lorne's bed.

"What did I miss?" Lorne asked, looking from one marine to the other.

"Scuttlebutt claims Ronon tried to reach Doc Keller and got caught by the weird tentacle shit that's growing out of her, so the colonel took a jumper up to get him and the Doc out," Fredericks informed him. "Don't know how that went, but knowing the colonel…" The marine trailed off and shrugged. He didn't have to finish the sentence. Sheppard had a habit of pulling off the impossible. "For anything more, you'll have to ask Doc Beckett."

"He'll have to ask me what?" Beckett was heading towards Lorne's bed with a computer tablet in his hands.

"How did Colonel Sheppard do against the wraith organism in Doctor Keller?" Lorne asked him bluntly.

The direct question startled Beckett. "Ahem…," he hemmed.

"Come on, Carson, everybody will know soon enough anyway," Lorne prompted. "There's no way you can keep a secret in this place."

Beckett gave in. Lorne was right. Besides, there was no reason to keep what had happened from Sheppard's XO. "Colonel Sheppard successfully injected Doctor Keller with the phage, but he was wounded in the process," he answered, remembering how he had helplessly listened in on the communications network, first as Ronon and then Sheppard tried to get close enough to Jennifer Keller. "We've already brought them down. Ronon and Jennifer need a little rest, but both will be fine, and the colonel will be, too. He should be out of surgery soon."

Lorne and the marines looked at him with equally sceptical expressions.

He sighed and added with some asperity, "Doctor Phillips is a very capable surgeon."

No one reacted to his statement. The three men continued to gaze at him. Beckett met their looks. Correctly interpreting them, he said slightly defensively, "Mr Woolsey just thought that I would be more useful here."

Lorne winced. "Yeah." There was some truth in that. Of all the medical staff, Carson knew both pathogen and treatment best. And Phillips _was _a good surgeon. "Well, so … the damned thing is dead?" He had to make sure. If the organism still lived, he had a job to do.

"Aye, dead as a doornail." Carson affirmed. He'd seen the mass of dead tendrils himself when he had accompanied the rescue crews to fetch their people down.

"Good. … Very good." Lorne sank back and breathed in deeply. A weight fell off his chest. He hadn't looked forward to firing a drone into the tower – and into Sheppard, Keller and, as he'd now learned, Ronon as well. He was relieved he didn't have to. Lorne rubbed a hand along his ribcage where the restraints had left their marks.

Beckett and the two marines eyed him curiously. He turned his aching head to the tablet. "What's it say, Doc?" He evaded, sidestepping the question that hadn't been asked.

"It says that you're in the clear, Major. Your blood shows no signs of Michael's biological agent. As of now, you are one hundred percent pathogen-free. Give yourself a little rest and we can release you soon."

Lorne breathed another sigh of relief. Beckett patted his arm. "I think I'll go inject the others." He turned to leave. "We can be sure now that the phage will work with no apparent side effects."

"Carson?" Lorne called him back. "Thank you!"

The Scot smiled. "You're very welcome, Evan. I'm glad I was here to help."

"By the way, Carson," Lorne returned the smile. "… glad to have you back."

"Not as glad as I am to _be_ back, laddie, not half as glad. … Now you take that rest I mentioned." With that, he left the enclosed area.

"Can someone get rid of those walls, please?" Lorne waved at the screens that were entirely too close.

"No problem, sir." With an effortless shove, Fredericks rolled the partitions to the side, clearing the view.

"Anyone got a deck of cards?"

..................................................................

"Thought I'd find you here."

"Afternoon, Colonel."

Lorne half-turned from his easel to look at his commanding officer – who, by rights, ought to be occupying a bed in the infirmary. That's where Lorne had last seen him a few hours ago, fiddling with his I-Pod and annoying the nurses.

"Keller let you go?"

"Ahem, yeah, sure." Sheppard shrugged as if the question by itself had been superfluous, let alone the answer.

Meaning he'd probably checked himself out. Lorne turned back to his painting, hiding a grin.

"Mind if I drop my stuff here?"

"Course not, sir."

His stuff being, if Lorne wasn't mistaken, a golf bag currently masquerading as an innocent, heavy-duty, military holdall. The golf bag–in-disguise was dropped to the floor. He heard a zipper being zipped.

"So, how's it going, Lorne? I hear everybody's free of Michael's nasty little surprise."

It had been another one of those rare, sunny days that warmed you with their bright light and gave you the feeling of being carefree – even if only for a short moment.

"Yes, sir. All gone and done with," Lorne answered with feeling.

Carson had done good work. He'd successfully treated everyone who'd come into contact with the pathogen on M2S-455, and most were released from quarantine the next day. Michael's infection had been cured with Michael's virus formula by Michael's clone. A fitting end, Lorne thought.

Sheppard's recovery from his stab wound would take a little longer – or so Keller had said.

"What about the leg? I heard Keller was very unhappy with you."

"Two more weeks off of active duty before she'll think about the cast coming off. Until then, only desk work." Lorne sighed. A prolonged hiatus near the south pier looked more and more tempting – especially in the face of all those report forms Woolsey expected to be filled out. Maybe he should ask Ronon to drag his bed here.

"How bad is it really?" Sheppard asked, concerned.

"Oh, not that bad." Lorne amended. "Even Doc Keller agrees that the plaster cast saved my leg from being re-broken, when I went into convulsions from the virus treatment. Seems like I pulled a few muscles, and she wants me to stay off my feet just to be on the safe side."

Lorne was more amused than alarmed. He also had a nice pattern of bruises across his chest and on his arms and legs from the restraints. He considered it a small price to pay for not turning into a freaking wanna-be hive ship.

"Beckett said it didn't really set back the mending process on the broken bones; I should just take it easy for a few days," he added. "No working out, no long hikes, things like that."

"Which is why you're here again." Sheppard took an iron out of the concealed golf bag, considered it for a second and then discarded it for a different one.

"Good place to get away from it all, sir." Lorne didn't think he needed to elaborate.

"That it is," Sheppard agreed. "How's the painting going?"

"I'm getting there." Lorne took a critical look at the canvas. It didn't look too bad. "How's the backswing?" he asked and raised his head to look over to where Sheppard stood, swinging the iron experimentally.

"Hmm…" Sheppard frowned at the iron, wiggling it sideways a few times. "Might need a little work."

Lorne returned his attention to the job at hand. He wasn't quite satisfied with the colour of the water around the pier.

"By the way, did anyone ever find out why Keller got the full treatment so fast?" Lorne asked. He had wondered about that from the moment he'd read McKay's message, but in the snafu, he'd completely forgotten to ask Carson. "I mean, most of us were exposed to Michael's crap pathogen for far longer than she was. Why her? She only came with the rescue crews."

"Beckett said something about her immune system being down. Apparently, she was working day and night on finding a way to stabilize his cells, pushing herself too hard and neglecting her own health." Sheppard explained, scratching an imaginary itch on his face.

Lorne tilted his head and contemplated the picture in front of him. "Maybe that's why Edison came down with the wriggly-wormy stage so quickly, too. He mentioned he'd caught a cold somewhere. Had already started sneezing before we left the city."

He added a little grey to the canvas. The muted colours of the Daedalus' usual landing spot were reflected by the waves around it, while the ocean farther away from the pier showed the full spectrum of blues.

"Probably right," Sheppard mused. He dumped the club on its camouflaged home. "You raid the kitchen again?" he asked, a longing look in his eyes.

Lorne followed his CO's gaze. He had to work at keeping a straight face. "Help yourself, sir," he offered, a wave of his brush indicating the food hamper that occupied its by now customary space by the wall.

"I didn't just come for the food," Sheppard protested, crouching next to the hamper and opening it. He raised a small piece of pastry to his nose and breathed in deeply. "Cinnamon buns?" he asked incredulously. He took a tentative bite. "Hmmmmm."

"Good?"

"Very." Sheppard kept his eyes closed as he finished the sweet off. "That really hit the spot," he sighed.

Lorne grinned. Richard Woolsey hadn't been the only newcomer to arrive with the Daedalus. The kitchen staff had been augmented by a pastry cook. The new guy had been plying his trade for the past few days to the unmitigated delight of everyone in Atlantis - with the possible exception of the infirmary. Lorne didn't think any of the delicacies had made it on the trays of diet food that the infirmary habitually ordered and received for its patients. His hamper contained a surprising variety of buns, pies, muffins and other freshly made goodies that the inhabitants of Atlantis hadn't seen for a while.

"Mind if I help myself to another one?" Sheppard asked wistfully.

"As long as you leave one for me, sir." This time, Lorne had had the hamper packed with company in mind. Sheppard had a habit of escaping an infirmary bed.

"Consider it done."

The two men worked in companionable silence for few minutes – well, one put paint to canvas; the other lounged on a field chair and sampled the amazingly good food.

Until Lorne broke the quiet. "Is McKay still mad at Zelenka for cutting off his net access?"

"Not really," Sheppard replied, distracted. He'd found what looked – and tasted – like miniature chocolate trifles. "Even Rodney knows that Radek wouldn't intentionally provide Woolsey with ammo against him. He's just mad that he got cut out of the action."

"And Mr. Woolsey?"

"Woolsey?" Sheppard took a sip from one of the water bottles cooling in the hamper to wash the feast down. "Oh, Rodney's still angry that Carter's not coming back, so, yeah, he's definitely mad at Woolsey."

He didn't add that Rodney's dislike of their new leader had reached novel heights when he'd heard that Woolsey seriously considered firing a bunch of drones into the wraith organism – and Jennifer Keller. Sheppard knew that Lorne knew – he'd told him himself, but he didn't think it had to become public knowledge. Woolsey was making too many people nervous already.

"Do you think he is settling in?"

"Woolsey?" Sheppard stood up and stretched his arms and shoulder muscles in an attempt to shake out the last remnants of the stiffness that he'd acquired from lying around in an infirmary bed for several days straight.

"Well, he'll come round to our ways, I'm sure." Sheppard pursed his lips, thinking of the scene in the infirmary, when Woolsey had voiced his doubts about being fit for the job. It was the moment he'd actually started to like the man. "Pegasus has a way of getting to people."

Sheppard's dry statement drew an amused chuckle from Lorne. "Yeah, look at us. We're the perfect examples of that, after all."

"Exactly," Sheppard returned the grin. Woolsey had made mistakes, not the ones he'd thought he made, but the ones that might have ultimately cost lives. He'd learn that if you got every one of your people out alive, you hadn't made a mistake. It took time for that lesson to sink in. Considering where he came from, Woolsey just needed a little longer to adapt. He wasn't a bad guy.

Sheppard looked around the platform. "You didn't bring the laptop."

"No, sir. I didn't want to look like a crack pot lugging all that stuff up here." Lorne smirked. He didn't think it necessary to mention that he'd left the chair and the easel on the platform all the time. The weather had been fine.

"Found your men?" Sheppard asked. He sauntered back to his golfing gear.

"I might have," Lorne responded. "Edison is coming back, and I thought of asking Fredericks and Meyers whether they want to be assigned to the team. It would be a change to standing guard duty in the city. We can do a couple of milk runs first; see how they like it and if we fit, before making it permanent." He'd thought long and hard about it. The two marines had impressed him. They looked like men he could depend on in hairy situations.

"Sounds like a plan."

"Yes, sir."

Sheppard retrieved the discarded golf club. He removed a golf ball and tee from the bag and stepped over to the far side of the platform. After fastening the tee to the surface with a suction cup, he placed the ball on it. A couple of practise swings later, the ball hit the waves far beyond the pier.

"Argh. Crap!" Sheppard's hiss of pain and the accompanying curse didn't come as any big surprise. He stood bent over, clutching his stomach. The golf club dangled loosely from one hand.

"Should you really be doing that, sir?"

"Probably not. Don't tell Keller!" Sheppard straightened slowly, rubbing his abused front.

"Yes, sir."

"I saw that, Major. Don't you get smart with me!"

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir! – Have a muffin?"

"Yes, Lorne, I think I just might. – Thank you."

"Any time, sir."

The afternoon sun cast its light on the two men who knew that their respite would not last for long, because they were in the Pegasus Galaxy, where the next crisis was – if not actually looming on the horizon – then most certainly already brewing somewhere in this strange place that they had come to call home.

The End


End file.
